Chapter 23

As promised, Gustie makes sure the girls are nice and quiet. But they’re not mutes. They have to make noise to communicate with each other. Effen listens to the hushed breakfast activity a few feet away. It’s almost like having a real family beneath his roof. The girls chat about schools and friends at school. Gustie tells them to make sure they do their homework. The homey feeling is underscored by what Effen thinks is the sound of Sunday morning traffic. St. Mark’s, St. Gabriel’s and First Presbyterian are all omn Main Street.

Gustie walks in before Effen answers her knock on the door.

He grumbles. “It’s a good thing I don’t sleep as nature intended …” His voice fades as Gustie opens the Venetian blind. “Outside …”

Effen may not sleep in the altogether, but he’s far from boarded up below the Fordham sweatshirt. The look on Gustie’s face compels him to forget about his attire (hell, they’re boxers, anyway) and go to the window.

It’s still night. A line of headlights is moving north out of town. The slow pace and short, even spacing between vehicles convince Effen this is no spontaneous parade but a formal cortege. The line extends as far as he can see from the window.
Where did they all come from? Where are they going?

A familiar compact car pulls into the driveway, bumping on patches of roughly packed snow that refuse to melt. Anticipating a visit, Effen hops into jeans and boots.

Matt’s taking the main staircase two steps at a time. The emotional high gear is unmistakable. “Hey, F.N., we saw your light and wondered if you’d want to come along.”

“What’s going on?”

“A show of strength. The people are about to fuck the state and take matters into their own hands! Come on! It’s going to be something for the history books.”

“You’re going to the park?”

“Correction: We’re going to Mount Can’t. We’re going to bust the pickets. Ther’s no amny of us, the Guard won’t dare lift a finger against us.”

Is he serious?

Effen looks toward the door, which Matt has left open. The procession continues, one care or light truck after the other, in an unending purr of engines, “How many of you are there?”

“Too many to count, but more than enough. We’ve even got the press with us! Soon as they saw us, they got into their vans and their satellites and got right in line. It’s beyond adjective, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

You’re not the only one, Effent thinks. He calls Bruton from his office. No answer. Not even the answering service. Bizarre. When Bruton isn’t home, Elizabeth answers. When Elizabeth and Bruton aren’t home, Farrell answers. This morning? Nobody answers. He tries Fair Mantle Village. The answering machine is on. Should he leave a message? For whom? Tormented by uncertainty, he sinks into the chair and leans on the desk, clasped hands to mouth.

Matt is waiting. “F.N.?”

“You haven’t thought about this, have you, Matt.”

“What’s there to think? We don’t have time to think. You saw what happened the other night! We need to take back our lives.”

“Will you think, Matt.” The tone is stern. Uncharacteristically. “It doesn’t matter how many of you there are. One howitzer and a few cleverly placed marksman can blast your brains to Kingdom Come.”

“They wouldn’t dare. There are too many of us. We’ve got the press, from here and abroad. Move against us, and the whole world will know.”

“What good can the whole world do for you if you happen to be the one within range?”

Matt has no time to answer. Ben is trotting into view, eager to know what’s keeping everybody.

Effen waves them off. Propelled by a sleepy, nervous stretch, he sinks low in the chair and yawns. “Go on. Good luck. Remember: if you end up in a box, your families will have to find somebody else to do the gift wrapping, because I sure as hell won’t do it. God forgive me, but I’m not big on suicides.”

Matt and Ben nod and go their way. They’re speechless. Francis Hume never speaks like that. It’s scary.

Effen is scared, too. Scared to think Farrell is at Fair Mantle Village. Scared to think what’s going to happen there within the next hour or so. Scared to think he can’t leave Gustie and the girls to go looking for her. Scared to think he’s never before been responsible for so many live people at one time. Scared to think he can’t live up to expectation. Scared to believe he would refuse to try to find Farrell before trouble starts.

The hand on his shoulder is Gustie’s. “Tom didn’t think it was going to be bad. As Matt said, the Guard doesn’t dare harm the people.”

Why take in hand the people fond, vain things to bring about?

Of course.

Effen takes up the phone. Gustie’s mouth drops when she hears him speaking to Father Alph. For a moment the two discuss the events of the morning. Effen asks the priest to be aware that Gustie and the Girls are at The House. He, Effen, has business down county, which means he’s got to leave them alone. He’d appreciate it if Father Alph would take them in if trouble starts. The priest says he will.

Mortified Gustie hounds Effen all the way upstairs. “You’re foisting us off on a priest?”

Effen drags clean clothes from the armoire and flees to the bathroom, loudly locking the door. The sound of the shower doesn’t drown out the pounding on the door.

“Francis! You can’t leave us alone! I won’t allow it!”

He emerges, hair dripping, shirt unbuttoned, jeans unzipped. Gustie is waiting, arms folded across her chest. “Where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re going to pick somebody up because that’s not how you dress when you make a call.”

He mushes his hair with the towel. “I thought you liked Father Alph. He’s a decent sort. Does he let you take Communion, knowing you’re going through a divorce?”

“Separation. It’s a separation!”

“He lets me, when I care to show myself. Like on Christmas, Easter …”

Gustie rolls her eyes. “I cannot believe you’d foist us off on a priest.”

“It’s your pastor, for Christ’s sake! Who knows what’s going to happen out there? Who else can you turn to if you can’t turn to Tom?”

“You’re going to Fair Mantle Village, aren’t you?”

He throws her the towel. His hair is too long to bother with total dryness. “Look, Gust, there’s more than meets the eye here. If I’m lucky, I should be able to talk some sense into some people before this thing gets out of hand.”

“Talk to Tom, you mean.”

Effen growls.

Gustie can’t hide her disgust. “Admit it. You think he’s a jerk. You always have. You’d do anything to humiliate him in public, and now you’ve got the chance. What do you want him to do, admit he’s wrong and call off the assault? Make hundreds of people look like idiots for jumping at his back and call?”

“That’s not what I had in mind, but it’s not a bad idea.”

“Then why are you going?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Effen consults the thermometer on the window. Thirty-four? What do you wear when it’s going to rain ordnance? He throws on a dark wool sweater, a blazer on top of that; the overcoat on top of that. Better the overcoat than the jacket. More coverage in the cold, especially if he’s got to stand around arguing.

“Francis. Why. Are. You Going."

He settles for telling her the near-truth: “To save some people from themselves.” Heading for tne stairs, he reminds her to call Father Alph if there’s an emergency.

Gustie and the girls watch in dismay as the little Cab puffs out of the driveway, turns south and chugs along the lane opposite the cortege.